


We take care of our own

by caelei



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelei/pseuds/caelei
Summary: How Caleb killed his parents





	We take care of our own

He wasn't inside the house when Aeodwulf did whatever he did. He didn't know what it was. He didn't really want to know. He had not known Aeodwulf very well growing up. Aeodwulf had been a year older, and standoffish. They had never been friends. He did not know the other boy's parents. He did not particularly care how they died, just that they did.

Astrid's parents' deaths were unpleasant. The poison choked them. Astrid always said she hated her mother's cooking; it was her father, so proud, who cooked for them tonight. The food was delicious. It sat heavy in Caleb's belly, but not unpleasant. Not like the food her parents ate. It was not hard to poison them. Caleb had known them; he and Astrid had known each other, growing up. He had asked to reminisce.

Her parents had been wholly willing. He had been if not like a son to them, then something close enough. They had gone out to see the tree that Caleb and Astrid had witnessed struck by lightning the year they were eight. Astrid had lingered behind in the kitchen on the pretense of making up plates. She laughed and said she knew all of her parents' favorite foods. She carried the plates out to them where they were standing under the great tree that still smelled, sometimes, of smoke. "Let's have a picnic," she said, and laughed again. They ate outside in the cooling summer air, smelling yesterday's rainfall and the still-drying grass, and when the fireflies came out they went inside. Her parents were drinking wine. They had offered some to all three of the students, and Caleb and Astrid --not Aeodwulf, he was too proud to drink with traitors-- accepted. They were sipping wine when her parents took their last breaths.

It truly had been unpleasant. They hadn't known what was happening to them. They just knew that suddenly, it hurt. Her mother reached out for her daughter, but Astrid stood by. It was the father that was the hardest, Caleb thought. Astrid had taken his hand. "I'm sorry," she'd said. She had seemed sad, but then she had looked at Aeodwulf, and the sadness had gone from her face. Still, she held her father's hand. "I'm sorry you supported the rebellion, papa."

Caleb didn't think the man ever realized. Astrid's mother already lay dead, dying, or unconscious, on the floor. Caleb, taking some sort of pity --he had known her, she had baked admittedly horrible peanut cookies for him and Astrid as children-- had arranged her so she was lying as if she was comfortable. He had folded her hands upon her chest.

Then they all went to Caleb's house.

Out of the three of them, Caleb had been the poorest. Perhaps that was why he had been friends with Astrid, because her parents had had some coin to spare, and they were generous and kind, and when Caleb didn't have the money they would spend some on him. They had once bought him shoes. _They were generous. They must have spent money on the rebellion._ Astrid was holding his hand. There was something about her hands, now, that he hadn't thought of before. They were warm as if from her father's last touch. And, now that he looked at them, they were so like her mother's hands. Still, he let his fingers cling to hers. She seemed to need it.

Aeodwulf made a sound in his chest, a sound of encouragement, and reached out and gripped Caleb's shoulder. They walked up to the door.

Caleb waited outside the dark house as the others fetched the cart they would use to stop his parents from fleeing. There were no windows so they didn't have to block those; they could never afford glass. He stood and he didn't think much, just waited. The others came back quickly with the cart and let the horse free. She was his parents' horse, an old mare beloved and prized for her work tilling fields, and he slapped her on the back so that she would run. For some reason, he did not want her to see.

"Astrid, Aeodwulf," Caleb said when the cart was in place. Caleb couldn't be sure, but Astrid's eyes seemed to gleam a little too wet in the gathering dark. He hoped she wasn't having second thoughts; it was already too late. She was unconsciously twisting and knotting her hands. Aeodwulf looked as impassive as ever. "Look away," Caleb told them, and Astrid did. She turned aside. Her twisted hands went to her mouth. Aeodwulf simply stood and watched.

"We do this together," the older boy said. Caleb nodded his head.

Then he turned and cast the fireballs that would burn his home to the ground.

The fire caught. "Caleb," he thought he heard Astrid say. The flames were spreading, catching in the simple thatch roof and the old wood, and he imagined his parents were sleeping. His brow furrowed, but his parents had spoken of rebellion. All of their parents had needed to die.

"I'm sure," he said to the others. "I'm sure of this."

"Good," Aeodwulf said.

"Caleb," Astrid said again. He didn't look at her. He looked at the house. He frowned. He blinked and looked again. He was sure. He was sure that this was the right thing. His parents had betrayed the empire.

Smoke was climbing into the sky and the village was a farming village, with everything spread out. No one would realize what had happened until morning. They wouldn't see the smoke in the dark. Astrid's parents had been the closest neighbors, if any would have come, and they were dead. No one was coming. No one would stop this. The wind drifted, fanning the flames into a dull roar, brightening the falling night. Caleb felt some of the smoke catch in his throat. He blinked again.

And then, from inside the house, he thought he heard something. Was it someone speaking? He had imagined, for some reason, that his parents would sleep and the smoke would choke them and they wouldn't wake. "What was that?" he asked. Astrid shook her head. Her hands were still up to her face. Aeodwulf looked at him and said, "It sounds like they've woken."

Caleb could not make out whatever it was that was said. The voices were muffled, panicked, though he recognized them. They were his mother and father. He remembered his mother singing a song to him when he was three, remembered it distinctly, a little song to encourage the fire as they crouched at the hearth to make a meal. He didn't know where the memory came from, he had never remembered something so far back before. He shrugged it away.

He remembered his father's voice rumbling, quiet, as Caleb lay in bed. He wasn't sure how old he had been. Seven or eight. Now that he thought about it, he had definitely been eight. He thought-- no he knew he had been sick. They had not had enough money for the doctor, but the doctor had come anyway. "We'll do anything," he remembered his father saying. Yes, that had been what he said. He said, "We'll do anything," and the doctor had said kindly, "Leofric, you don't have to do anything. It's alright. It's alright."

 _We take care of our own,_  he remembered his father saying, sometime later. Caleb, standing outside as the flame caught and the smoke blew, could remember that too. It bothered him. He felt confused.

"Caleb," someone said, and it wasn't Astrid but Aeodwulf. The boy was looking into his face. "Caleb--" the boy said again.

Caleb could hear his parents clearly now, and they were screaming. He rolled his shoulders, shrugged it away. The food from Astrid's parents, their last meal, sat heavy in his stomach. _But not unpleasant,_  he told himself, and remembered them all standing underneath the tree. He remembered when the lightning had struck. That was why he had been sick, as a kid. He remembered lying in bed and nothing had made sense to him. His mind had opened up. Something of that feeling was with him now. He looked at Aeodwulf and said, "I don't know-- I don't know what's happening."

"Caleb?" Aeodwulf asked, and the impassivity was gone. Caleb could hear his parents screaming, and he remembered. He remembered.

"Something's wrong, something's happening," he said. Then again, "Something's wrong." He didn't know what what happening. He just kept remembering.

There had been the day his magic first had come, after the lightning strike, and his parents, who had been poor all their lives, had been so proud of him. They had wanted to sell the horse so he could go to school, though they had needed the horse. He remembered his father saying-- yes! His father had said, "We take care of our own." The town grouped together, and laughed and danced in the big old barn, and celebrated as they passed a plate around and collected money. They had not had to sell the horse, the same horse Caleb had slapped so she would run away and not have to see. Astrid had taken a few steps away and into the dark. Caleb thought he heard soft crying.

His parents had always been proud of him, even before the magic. He had always been a bright boy though sometimes, when he was younger, he had been cruel. He had thought himself better than Astrid, smarter and more deserved than her, and had envied her parents' money. He had stolen from them once, and when they had found out he had given the money back and he had felt ashamed. But they had let him keep it. And he had stood and watched while they hurt and died. He had folded her mother's hands over her chest, and arranged her as if she had been sleeping. He had sipped wine. He had finished the glass and set it down, carefully, on the table where the dirtied plates still sat.

The screaming was incoherent now, broken husky wails, and it was his mother's voice screaming. Where had his father's voice gone? _We take care of our own,_  his father had said. "You will use your abilities and help so many people," his mother had told him. He had been so proud to go to the Academy, but when the day had come he had clung to her apron and cried, though he had been old enough he should not have acted so childishly. "You will help so many people," she had told him, "You will learn so much, and you will be happy, and you will protect us someday. You will keep us safe."

"My dear boy," his mother had said, and he was remembering things now that he should not be able to remember. He thought Aeodwulf had taken him by the shoulders and spun him away from the smoke and the flames. But he remembered anyway.

He was being held in his mother's arms as a baby. He was one or two years old. He did not know how he could remember this, but perhaps it was in the words she had said. "My dear boy. My sweet Caleb. My boy, my son." His father was quiet but Caleb could remember he was nearby. Yes, there he was, his father was holding them, holding them both in his arms. His father hugged them tight. "My only son," his mother said, and wept, "My only son." 

His parents had not been able to have other children, and _no one was coming,_  Caleb realized. Aeodwulf's hands were holding him, like his father's arms hugging them tight. He broke from the other boy's grasp and turned and stumbled, looking back at the house. The smoke caught again at his throat. He could hear Astrid crying, and his father had cried when his mother had lost their second son. They had never told him about the baby they had buried. He had been so young. How could he remember? Tears sprang to his eyes. He wiped at his face angrily, and tried to shrug it off again. "I'm fine, I'm _fine,_ " he snapped to Aeodwulf, who was still trying to hold onto him. But it was quiet except for the flames which were very loud, and he could feel the clouds stirring and rumbling above him. His mother was not screaming. He knew it was done. It was done. It was done.

"Mother and father," Caleb said, and felt it as his mind _opened._  It opened like the time he had been near-struck by lightning, the lightning and the tree which had, somehow, given him power. It had made him special, and his mother had said, "You will help so many people, you will protect us." She had said, _You will keep us safe._  And his father had said, "We take care of our own."

He cried out as he felt his mind give in. There were so many memories, and he didn't know where they had come from. He remembered his mother wiping his face as a kid, "Silly boy, you've got dirt on your chin." He remembered his father insisting he wear the shoes Astrid's parents had bought him after they caught him stealing; he remembered the shoes bursting from his feet with the force of the lightning. He remembered being carried in his mother's arms as a baby, as a small child, and when the lightning had struck, as an eight year old kid.

He remembered how they had helped him eat when he was weak with the lightning fever, and how he had been unable to sleep. His father had held his hand the first time he had been strong enough, again, to walk; the shoemaker in the town over had made him new shoes for the ones he had lost. The shoes had cost a lot of money. How could he have forgotten that his father had insisted, even when Caleb didn't want to, that he wear them? "You are so sharp, my son, and you should look it." He remembered trading chicken's eggs for medicine. He remembered his mother cooking his favorite porridge on the nights he couldn't sleep. His mother had learned to make balms for him. She had learned so much for him; she had become very good at herbalism. The lightning had marked him. It had burned him. _Burned,_  he thought, and his mother and father had cared for him. They had cared so much for him.

What had he done to them?

Caleb knew, even as his mind broke open, that he would never forget this moment. Even if nothing was left of him after _everything that had happened,_  after remembering everything his parents had been and everything he had been with them and _everything he had done to them,_  he would never forget this. It wasn't, so much, the screaming. It was when the screams were done.

Memories of his parents came to his mind a thousand thousand thousand times. He remembered everything. His parents were gone. He had done this; he had killed them. Astrid was weeping, and Aeodwulf tried to hold him but Caleb fell as if, again, the lightning had struck him.

"Teacher!" he could hear Aeodwulf scream, and the boy who was usually so solemn cried out as he held him, "Teacher, please, please help him!" The boy held him as his mother and father had held him. As Astrid had held his hand, with the hands that had looked like her mother's. The hands she had used to poison them.

"What--" Caleb croaked, "What did you do to them, Aeodwulf? What did you do to them?" He didn't know what the boy had done in the house; Caleb had not gone inside. He didn't know how Aeodwulf's parents had died. He had stood outside, uncaring. Astrid had stood next to him. He hadn't known Aeodwulf's parents. They had not mattered to him.

"What did you do to them?" Caleb asked again, and then mumbled it even as his mind lost the use of the words. There were only the memories, memories and smoke and lightning clouds, and the words were left unspoken within him. But he asked the boy, again and again and again. _What did you do to them? What did you do to them? What did you do to them?_


End file.
